Death Sentence
by ProbablyAPseudonym
Summary: A Dunmer thief is sent on what he assumes to be a punishment assignment to the island of Solstheim, little does he know that the job he has been given is most likely the most important of his life. Set between Oblivion and Skyrim. As always, The Elder Scrolls and it's characters, locations, etc. are the intellectual property of Bethesda Softworks.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The waves crashed relentlessly against the shores of Solstheim, their ferocity an omen of the storm to come. The once lush island was no stranger to fierce and unpredictable weather and the eruption of Red Mountain over a decade beforehand had done well to wean out any of the remaining indigenous flora and fauna. Whilst not a volcanic island by any stretch of the imagination, it would be easy for a layman to mistake it as such due to the thick layers of ash that coated the Southern portion of the landmass. The North remained as wild as ever, it's cold climates and natural boundaries in the form of mountains helping to keep it sheltered from the worst of the eruptions ill-effects.

As the storm finally made landfall, so to did a ship to the port of Raven Rock, one of the islands two settlements. The ship was not Nordic, nor of Dunmer make, like most of the ships that passed through, because nobody in their right mind went to Solstheim with the intention of staying. No, this ship was large and elegantly made; the same sort of ship employed by the Imperial Navy or merchants from Cyrodiil. A strange sight in it's own right, Imperial troops were rarely seen on Solstheim before the eruption of Red Mountain; now they never came. Their garrison on the island had been flattened due to the ash spewed out by the volcano and with it all of the soldiers within. A tragic but unavoidable loss of life.

As the boat pulled into harbour through the blinding sheets of rain that the Gods seemed fit to dump onto the small town. it became evident that it would have trouble fitting into the tight dock. Nonetheless, with no small amount of effort; the vessel managed. It's sides barely scraping against the smooth stone of the pier.

With a loud _thwump_ , the galleon's gangplank lowered onto the wet stone of the dock, the crewmen who dropped it; all dressed in thick linens quickly retreated back into shelter below deck. Their places taken by the figure of a man dressed in dark leathers and a heavy looking hood that concealed his face in shadow. Unlike the rest of the ship's crew, who were currently milling about on deck, hunched down in a futile attempt to find respite from the downpour; He carried himself as if the storm was nothing to him, simply ignoring it. The man tentatively took several strides down the gangplank, not making it halfway down before the deep and gravelly voice of a Dunmer met his ears.

"Halt, stranger! State your business in Raven Rock, it ain't everyday we get outlanders to Solstheim."

The owner of the voice was hunched down at the end of the small wooden plank, his wrinkled and sharp features forming a half frown, half sneer at the man in front of him. In his hand a lit lantern swayed in the strong winds, poorly lighting the surrounding locale due to the torrent of water falling from the heavens. The figure before him let out an audible huff of air before speaking. His voice calm and collected, despite the terrible conditions, he spoke smoothly; his accent holding the slight twinge of a person native to the Heartlands of Cyrodiil, or at the very least, one who had spent a good deal of time there.

"Then today shall be the same as any other, friend. Tulvel Rathdram, at your service. A pleasure, I'm sure."

The man pulled back his hood, instantly revealing his Dunmer heritage, his features were considerably more soft than the man with the lantern, however still hard and world weary; suggesting that he had seen his fair share of hardship. On his head was a thick mop of dark brown hair, made only more messy by the wind and the rain; whilst his face sported a slightly scruffy beard. His mouth seemed to be stuck in an almost permanent grimace. In response to the other Dunmer's reveal, the man with the lantern simply let out a derisive snort.

"You may be a Dunmer, boy, but you're still an outlander round 'ere. You talk like an Imperial, you sound like an Imperial, you might as well be an Imperial, you see? Now what're you doin' in Solstheim, outlander?"

Tulvel paused before speaking, running a hand through his beard and simply shrugging.

"I am what you would call a.. Soldier of fortune, a traveller of the world, an adv-"

"You're a vagrant then? We got enough of those 'round 'ere, outlander."

He remained silent for several moments, offering a slight smile to the older Dunmer and continuing the last few steps down the platform and slinging a hand around him in a mock show of camaraderie.

"Well then, Raven Rock has one more! Trust me, I shall cause no trouble, none at all! I doubt you'll even notice I'm here, friend."

The lantern holder let out a gruff noise, his face forming into a scowl as he was dragged along the pier by Tulvel against his will; begrudgingly playing along with the act for the time being.

"Alright! Alright! You're one o' those types then? Don't waste my time, we get all sorts through 'ere, I just make sure they ain't no troublemakers... Well, even if you are, it don't matter either way. This ain't Cyrodiil, outlander, and we don't follow your laws. This is Morrowind, furthermore, this is Morrowind's frontier; so we follow Morrowind's laws."

A toothless grin crossed the man's face as he continued the obviously rehearsed speech; staring the newcomer down as he did so.

"And out 'ere on the frontier, we 'ave to set a sort of example; you see? Whether it be stealin', lyin', killin', cheatin'.. All that.. Well, lets just say the headsman 'round 'ere keeps his axe sharp, hm?"

Tulvel let out a slightly more nervous laugh than he would've liked, releasing the man as they reached the end of the dock and simply giving a wordless nod, the friendliness from before seeming to have dried up as he leaves the old elf to go back to his spot on the end of the pier, accosting any sailor who dared to set foot onto dry land. With a sigh, he stuck his hands in his pockets and began to saunter towards what he could only assume to be the inn, the sign hanging above the door swung wildly in the gale kicked up by the storm. As he reached the door and moved to open it, he paused; his features turning into a frown as he muttered to himself.

"I knew this job would be bloody suicide."

* * *

 **A/N: So! My first story. It's probably going to be a bit of a pet project of mine over the next several months, so please don't expect any regular updates. I generally write when the fancy takes me, but this is the first time I've ever actually published said writing. Please feel free to review this, God knows I could use the advice, and I sincerely hope you enjoy the rest of the story I've got planned.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Tulvel was a thief. A proper thief mind you, with a guild and everything to back him up. Not that being associated with a guild meant much these days, not since the Oblivion Crisis and certainly not since the dissappearance of the Grey Fox. To anyone outside of the guild, it was business as usual, most people were content to go about their daily lives not even acknowledging the existance of an organised group of burglars, the notion was entirely ridiculous. The Empire did nothing to discourage this line of thinking. To anyone inside the guild, well, it was a shambles. The once proud Cyrodiilic thieves guild was now broken and fragmented.

This change didn't happen overnight, of course. Every organisation needs a leader, and the thieves guild's leader was the Grey Fox. The Fox had always been eccentric to say the least. But after the business with the Septims and the daedra; things took a turn for the worse. It started off subtly to begin with, certain jobs were just slightly more outlandish than others. Over time however, all the jobs just became more and more insane. 'Go steal an ogre's loincloth', 'fetch me the doily of the Countess of Bruma', things of that ilk. In the end they were just ignored and the Grey Fox faded away into the background, nobody can really remember the last time they saw him; but they knew it was the beginning of the end when he was gone for good.

Almost as soon as the Grey Fox left, there was a split in the guild's leadership, certain parties vying for control. In the end it boiled over into what could best be described as a schism. Certain people took their supporters and went on to greener pastures, Skyrim, Elsweyr, Hammerfell. Regional guilds popped up everywhere. The golden age of the thieves guild was well and truly over. A few people stuck around with the original organization, of course. Tulvel being one of them, more out of a misguided sense of loyalty than because he wanted to. Right now, however, he was regretting that decision.

As he entered his rather meager room, he collapsed into a nearby chair and leaned forward; rubbing his temples and letting out a long sigh. Who knew the people in Morrowind were so inhospitable anyway? What happened to solidarity with your fellow countrymen? And how in Oblivion was he supposed to have known that 'drakes' were just another word for Septims? Coming here had definitely been a mistake, he should've just cut his losses and ran; but no, his damn Dunmer pride had to get the better of him. His misplaced Dunmer pride, because apparently he didn't know the first thing about being a Dunmer, a fact that was becoming increasingly evident.

He was by no means a bad thief. He just made very stupid mistakes every now and then, everyone does. Falling out of a second story window and landing on a passing guard was one of those mistakes. The guild hadn't appreciated paying his fine, they decided to show this lack of appreciation by sending him to the backwater of Tamriel. A terrible island, in a terrible province full of terrible people and terrible things that wanted to kill him. Well, that's what he'd heard at least.

Regardless, this assignment was obviously a punishment. Steal a spear from a bunch of Nords living in isolation in the North of the island. Nobody said if it was a particularly special spear. The note he'd been given just said it was a spear. There could be an infinite amount of spears on Solstheim and he had to find this specific spear. Needless to say, Tulvel wasn't happy and he was content on staying unhappy.

Standing up from his seat and moving over to his, well, slab covered in furs. He wasn't going to call it a bed, he should've expected such a backwards place hadn't invented the mattress yet. Unceremoniously dropping down onto it he quickly fell into a rather uneasy sleep, not surprising considering the circumstances. Well, perhaps on the bright side the Nords would be more hospitable?

Who was he kidding?


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

By the time Tulvel awoke, he did so with a splitting headache. Probably from the lack of a cushion, apparently they hadn't gotten round to using those yet in Morrowind either. With a groggy grunt he pulled himself up from his 'bed' and stumbled out of his admittedly rather spacious room, it did have that going for it at the very least. Steadying himself on a nearby wall and making himself look somewhat presentable he headed into the main area of the inn, cornerhouse, whatever they called the thing.

The room could best be described as hazy. Dunmer buildings, not unlike those in Bruma, were built mostly underground. Whilst in Bruma this served the purpose of trapping warmth due to the cold climates. In Morrowind, Tulvel could only assume it was because of the constant ash being spewed out of Red Mountain. Perhaps having the buildings underground meant they would be less likely to be destroyed by any violent eruptions. He could be entirely wrong of course, not much made sense around here anyway. The smokiness of the room was due to it being underground, numerous sconces and torches burnt, along with bundles of incense that gave the room a vaguely fragrant smell. The smoke rose up into the hollow of the curved ceiling, with nowhere else to go it just hung there. Tulvel couldn't help his eyes watering.

Sauntering past several patrons, all who gave him discouraging looks along with the occasional hiss of 'outlander', he made his way to the cornerhouse's bar. Pulling up a stool and taking a seat before putting on his best happy-go-lucky expression, he gestured the barkeep over, announcing loudly.

"Good morning, friend, I'm a little peckish and I would love to see what this... Lovely establishment has to offer in the way of food."

The man behind the bar gave Tulvel a long stare before speaking up, his voice flat and deadpan.

"Yams."

"Er... Yams? Is that... Um... It, then?"

The barkeep simply gave a nod, turning around and walking over to one of the shelves behind him, picking up an ugly looking purple thing, somewhat akin to a large potato; and dropping it on the counter in front of Tulvel. Who gave the vegetable a wary look.

"Er... What is it, exactly?"

" _It,_ is the only thing that grows around here, stranger. Ash doesn't make the most fertile of land. We've made do with yams for longer than you've been here and we'll make do with them long after you're gone, so either buy one or go hungry. Five drakes."

"F-Five Septims!? That's rid-"

Tuvlel stopped mid sentence, staring at the unblinking face of the barkeep, before wordlessly reaching into his purse and sliding the coins across the counter where they were quickly snatched away.

Staring down at the yam in front of him, his yam. He sighed. Turning in his seat slightly to look at the other patrons in the room, looking for tips on how to conquer consuming it, unfortunately for him, it didn't look like any of them were hungry. Turning back, he took the yam in both hands and with a grimace, brought it up to his mouth and took a bite. Scrunching up his nose at the earthy and bitter taste. No sooner had he put it down before the entire cornerhouse erupted into raucous laughter.

"You're supposed to cook it first, outlander!"

Tulvel's ears turned the same colour as the ash yam.

Now summarily humiliated and waiting for the din of laughter to pass, he eventually found the courage to speak to the barkeep once again. His voice a tad quieter this time.

"Do you have anything to wash this down, by chance?"

The barkeep's lips twisted into a cruel grin.

"Plenty, outlander! This is a cornerhouse, after all!"

He reached down under the counter, bringing up a large earthenware bottle and placing it down in front of him with a _clunk_. The neck of the bottle was engraved with daedric runes and patterns, if it weren't for the circumstances, Tulvel might've admired it for a little while. And then he would've stolen it. Obviously.

"Normally this stuff doesn't come cheap, outlander, so consider this a one-time deal. Ten drakes for the bottle, no more, no less."

Tulvel looked at the fellow Dunmer warily.

"What am I buying?"

"Only the finest sujamma, outlander, brewed it myself; my own special recipe. You won't be dissapointed, I can tell you that now."

With an inward groan, Tulvel slid more money across the counter and grasped the bottle in one hand, popping the cork and giving it a cautionary sniff. It smelt foul. However, Tulvel was no stranger to a good drink and it certainly couldn't be that bad. Could it? He took a rather adventurous swig out of the bottle.

It could be that bad.

The best way to describe it would be to imagine getting hit in the face by a rather irate mule. Needless to say, it knocked Tulvel on his ass; much to the delight of the rest of the patrons. Now feeling even worse, he brought himself up to his feet with no small effort, ash yam in one hand, sujamma in the other. Without saying anything he up and walked out of the cornerhouse and into the harsh sunlight of Raven Rock in an attempt to spare the rest of his dignity from the local's jokes.

He didn't have much of it to begin with.


End file.
